


heaven's light

by extasiswings



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: (Maybe Slightly More Than), Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fallen Angels, Gen, Guardian Angels, Romance, TBB2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 19:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12848451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: “Do you believe in demons, Lucy?” Garcia asks before he can talk himself out of it or think of a better response—one less likely to get them thrown out of her office.“No,” she says, holding his gaze steadily. “But I believe in angels. And I’ve been trying for years to convince myself that you weren’t my guardian angel that night, Mr. Flynn. But I’m not wrong. Am I?”





	1. Chapter 1

No one knows exactly why the angels appear when they do. Sometimes they're born in times of chaos. Other times in peace. But there's no true rhyme or reason to it—years, decades, sometimes even centuries can go by without the birth of a new angel—even the oldest of the flock can't always tell when they'll receive another member. 

But they always know when one falls.

* * *

"Garcia, wait!" Gabriel calls as his youngest brother totters over the hill in the distance. 

"Brother, watch! Watch!" Garcia calls back, unfurling gold-tipped wings, lightly tufted with youth. As Gabriel watches, Garcia lifts into the air, wings catching the light breeze for an instant...and then he promptly falls hard to the ground again. 

Gabriel does what any good brother would do in such a situation. He bursts out laughing. 

He's still chuckling when he extends his own wings and glides over to his fallen brother—stunned and frustrated, though not otherwise injured as he is. 

"I really thought I had it that time," Garcia huffs. 

"You'll get there," Gabriel replies. "It just takes time."

Garcia fidgets with his fingers for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek before a question finally slips out. 

"Gabriel?"

"Yes?"

"Will I be a guardian like you one day?"

Gabriel's lips quirk up and he ruffles Garcia's hair. 

"You can be anything you want to be. A guardian, a warrior, a soul classifier...anything. And I'll help you get there."

"Promise?"

"I promise." 

"Why do you want to be a guardian?" Gabriel asks. 

"I want...I want to help people," Garcia replies. 

Years, decades later, that's the moment Gabriel looks back on and wishes he had made different choices, thought harder, better. Instead, what he does is place a hand on his brother's shoulder and squeeze lightly. 

"Well then. I'll help you."

* * *

“Garcia!”

The call echoes through the quiet garden, startling the boy in question out of his reverie. He’s years, decades old, but not actually more than a teenager by their standards, not trusted with enough responsibility to actually keep him busy. As a result, he spends more time exploring the outskirts of heaven than he should. 

If asked, Garcia would say he can’t help being curious, can’t help wanting to find all the secret nooks and crannies of his home—the pools that allow him to look down on earth without supervision, the places where the veil between worlds is thin enough that if he wanted he might just be able to slip through…

_It’s not forbidden_ , he thinks stubbornly, even as he rearranges himself to appear more innocent when Gabriel steps into view.

“Brother,” he greets, and Gabriel sighs.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Garcia,” he scolds. “For Father’s sake, is it really so hard to stay in the city?”

The city, with its pearly gates and tall towers that glitter when the sun catches them. The city, that’s crowded and stifling and leaves Garcia feeling hollow and bored.

_Yes. Yes it is._

Not, of course, that he says as much to Gabriel. 

“Maybe if I had a real assignment…” Garcia allows the thought to trail off, raising a hopeful brow at his brother as he clambers to his feet.

Gabriel shakes his head, but there’s a hint of a smile playing about his lips that smooths away any lingering irritation in his face. 

“You’re too young.”

“You always say that,” Garcia complains.

“Because it’s still true,” Gabriel replies, looking for all the world as though he’s holding back a comment that Garcia’s tone is only proving his point. “Look, Garcia—” He claps his brother on the shoulder and squeezes gently. “—as soon as we get a file that’s right for you, I promise it’ll be your turn. But until then, you have to stop running off. You missed a council meeting this afternoon.”

The effort it takes not to roll his eyes is extreme. 

“You and I both know that it’ll be a century at least before I even get a chance to sit on the council,” Garcia points out. “Until then, I couldn’t care less what happens in those meetings. It’s not like they matter anyway.”

It’s an old argument, and one that Gabriel clearly has no intention of rehashing given the way his mouth snaps shut on an instinctive retort before he takes a breath and starts again.

“As a matter of fact, this one was rather relevant to your interests,” Gabriel replies, reaching into his pocket and coming up with a thick folder. “New guardian guidelines. Since you weren’t there to hear us go over all of them, you can read them yourself. And there will be a test. I suggest you study up.”

Garcia takes the folder with a mock-shudder of distaste. 

“If people knew what a bureaucracy heaven is, they would never want to come here,” he says. 

Gabriel’s mouth quirks up at that. “Good thing they don’t know then.” He turns to go, then adds, “Try to be back by evening bells so I don’t have to come all the way out here again.”

“No promises,” Garcia replies, only half-joking. Still, Gabriel spreads his wings and flies off without complaint, seemingly taking no notice of the small booklet that falls from his pocket as he does. Garcia opens his mouth to call after him, but stops when he realizes just what it is.

A guardian file. One that’s been declined for assignation if he’s reading the symbols correctly.

Well, if no one else is going to do it...

_Too young? I’ll show them too young_ , Garcia thinks as he picks up the booklet and opens it. 

_Okay, Lorena Flynn. What do you need?_

* * *

It’s another two days before Garcia manages to actually do anything with his newly claimed case. Or at least, before he’s able to sneak away for long enough to visit the tree with the most versatile portal so he can see his charge in person.

His stomach swoops as he steps through the portal and reappears in a small bedroom. Lorena’s bedroom. 

From what he can tell, the room is fairly standard for a 15-year-old girl—posters and artwork cover the walls and art supplies, books, and a smattering of small awards are scattered across the desk, the floor, and any other flat surface. But the room isn’t what’s important. No, that would be Lorena herself, dressed all in black and curled into herself as though to unwind might just result in her falling apart completely. 

Sobs wrack her body, but the sounds are muffled by her pillow. From downstairs, the faint murmurings of subdued conversation filter up—it’s her mother’s funeral, Garcia remembers—but he doesn’t concern himself with those. 

The rules say he shouldn’t reveal himself, but...

“Don’t cry,” he says before he can stop himself. 

(It’s possible he didn’t quite think it through)

Lorena does, in fact, stop crying. It just so happens that she also shrieks and scrambles backwards until her back hits the wall. 

“Who are you?” She demands. Her eyes are red and puffy, but hard as steel nonetheless. If she’s afraid of a random stranger appearing in her room, she certainly isn’t showing it. “How did you get in here?”

“I—well—“ Garcia trips over his words and Lorena apparently decides she doesn’t care about an explanation after all. Instead of waiting, she reaches for the closest object—a tennis ball on the nightstand—and lobs it firmly at him. 

“Get out!”

Garcia flinches—on instinct his wings unfurl and wrap around him to deflect the blow—and the ball bounces off without issue. A strangled sound comes from the direction of the bed and he vanishes his wings only to see Lorena staring at him with wide eyes. 

“What—what the fuck?” She stammers. “Who—what—what are you?”

“I’m—“ Garcia rubs the back of his neck and tries not to think of how thoroughly he’s bungled this whole thing. _Gabriel can never find out about this. Absolutely not. Never._ “I’m your guardian angel?”

“...Bullshit,” Lorena replies, still pressed firmly against the wall, but slowly beginning to relax.

“Is not!” He flashes his wings again as proof and Lorena cocks her head.

“I suppose those make a compelling case,” she admits. “But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. Especially now.”

“I—I’m here for you.” _Shit, I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I?_ “I didn’t realize what day it was. I’m sorry.”

Lorena draws her knees into her chest and looks away. It occurs to him that she’s probably heard a thousand _I’m sorrys_ over the past several days—his likely means no more than any of the others. 

“Yeah, well. Unless you can bring my mom back, I’m really not interested in having a heavenly babysitter, so—” She waves in the direction of the window. 

In the back of his mind, Garcia can practically hear Gabriel laughing at him. 

“There’s nothing you need?” He asks, and if he can hear the desperation in his voice, he’s certain Lorena can as well. 

“Why does it matter?” She replies. “Don’t you have other people to watch over or whatever? The way I see it, I’m doing you a favor by taking one off your plate.”

“I—” Garcia sighs and closes his eyes. “Actually I don’t,” he admits. “You...you were going to be the first.”

Lorena is quiet for a long moment. Then, to his great surprise, she laughs. It’s a small thing, more ironic than anything, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. 

“Well, aren’t we a pair?” She says. “A guardian angel with no one to care about and an orphan girl hiding in her bedroom because it’s easier than dealing with other people. Sounds like something out of a bad fantasy novel.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Garcia replies, and Lorena smiles only somewhat reluctantly.

“It’s...you know what, it’s not important. What’s your name, angel boy?”

“Garcia.”

“I’m Lorena,” she acknowledges. “But I guess you already knew that.”

Another beat passes and Lorena finally untwists herself and scoots to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she repeats.

“I’m not—”

“But I wouldn’t mind a friend,” she continues, cutting off his interruption. There’s a hint of challenge in her eyes when she looks back to him, and underneath something else. Loneliness. Hope. 

It’s not the correct protocol, but then, he’s already well and thoroughly scrapped protocol at this point anyway. And a friend...well, he’s never really had one of those either. It could be nice.

“I could be your friend,” Garcia agrees. 

“Okay then.”

“Okay.” 

She holds out her hand for him to shake and he stares for just a moment before crossing the room and taking it. Something sparks between them when he does—Lorena sucks in a sharp breath, but doesn’t pull away—and it warms him from the inside out. Whatever it is, it feels...right. 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Lorena Flynn,” he says quietly. 

If he had been thinking about it at the time, that should have been a sign that the best option would have been to turn and run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. But he didn’t. He doesn’t. He stays. 

And later, much later, he’ll say that it was all worth it. That she was worth it. 

She was worth everything.

* * *

Time passes. Lorena Flynn turns eighteen, then twenty, then twenty-one, and still she remains Garcia’s only charge. It would be frustrating except that having nothing better to do gives him plenty of time to spend with her. 

And he loves spending time with her. Talking with her, listening to her, taking her flying and seeing the looks on her face as she gazes up at the stars or out across cityscapes from hilltops or the roofs of skyscrapers. She’s brilliant and talented and has so many dreams for the future that his heart aches sometimes knowing that she’ll outgrow him, move on, fall in love…

She deserves that, he knows. She deserves to be happy. She deserves to be loved. 

(It’s only that if he’s honest with himself, he knows she already is. But he can’t say a word. That’s a line that he can’t cross, that he wouldn’t be able to come back from. He’d be stripped of his wings faster than anything if anyone knew)

(Except, if he’s even more honest, that might not be the worst thing in the world if he got to stay with her forever)

And then there comes the night he’s been dreading. When he appears outside Lorena’s door only to find her otherwise occupied—a tall, dark-haired man with his fingers curled into her hair and his mouth on hers as she twines her arms behind his neck and pulls him closer. 

Garcia doesn’t wait to watch her invite him in, just vanishes back through the portal that brought him to her in the first place, feeling sick.

_What did you think would happen?_ He thinks to himself bitterly. _You were never going to be her happily ever after._

Still, he can’t shake the feeling.

“Help! Oh, please God, someone help me. Please, please, I don’t want to die, I’m too young to die, please—”

The call shocks Garcia out of his reverie. It’s not Lorena’s voice—no, this is someone new, echoing from the pool in the center of the garden. When he touches the water, the flood of images freezes him in place.

_A car skidding off a dark road—a stuck seatbelt—water pouring in through a cracked window—sinking, sinking, sinking—_

“Please, I don’t want to die, please, please, please—”

Garcia moves before he can fully think it through, making his way to a portal and thinking of the woman, the car, the road in the dark. In the beat between one breath and the next, he’s gone.

When he opens his eyes, he’s standing on the side of the road at the edge of the broken guardrail. Even in the dark, he can see the foaming waves where the car hit the water, and he dives in after it. The water is frigid, but his wings help propel him down, down down, until he can grasp the door handle, rip it open, and pull the half-drowned woman out.

For half a moment, when Garcia surfaces, he wonders if she’s dead, if he was too late, but then she coughs, gasping for air, and her hand closes around one of his wings.

“It’s okay,” Garcia murmurs, flying back up to the edge of the cliff to set her down gently on the side of the road. “You’re okay. You’re going to be fine.”

The woman shivers and looks up at him through half-lidded eyes when he releases her.

“Who—what are—?”

“That isn’t important,” Garcia replies. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

“My mom’s going to kill me,” she whispers as she closes her eyes again.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

_Garcia!_

_Shit. Gabriel._

Without another word, Garcia pulls away from the woman and vanishes.

Slipping back through the hidden portal, he clambers out of the tree enclosing it as gracefully as possible, only to freeze when Gabriel appears in front of him. His brother’s eyes are tight, mouth drawn together in a thin line, and he trembles with a barely-concealed fury that Garcia has never seen directed his way before. 

“Good evening, brother,” Garcia begins quietly. He pushes aside the twist in his stomach, his sudden unease, and drops down to the ground. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

His words may have been intended to ease the tension, but their flippancy only makes Gabriel’s lips thin even more. 

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He asks finally. “Do you?”

“I—” The anger in Gabriel’s voice takes him aback, but Garcia can’t help the fact that it also raises his own hackles. “You know what? Yes. I saved a girl’s life. What is so bad about that?”

“Because you know nothing!” Gabriel shouts. His fists clench and release and he turns away from Garcia for a brief moment, swearing under his breath and muttering something too low for Garcia to hear.

“She would have drowned,” Garcia argues. “What should I have done? Just sat here and let it happen?”

“That is exactly what you should have done,” his brother retorts. “Because you are one of us and we don’t interfere. We don’t go gallivanting off to the surface at every opportunity to mix with humanity. We have roles and responsibilities here, in our home, and you can’t just...flaunt those because you feel like it.”

Garcia’s jaw ticks as he tries to banish Lorena from the forefront of his mind, as he tries to ignore the thought of _what if I don’t want any of that_. 

“I couldn’t let that woman die,” he repeats stubbornly. To his surprise, it’s not anger that flashes in Gabriel's eyes, but fear.

“Garcia—” The fury from before fades into something else, something that settles on Gabriel’s shoulders like a massive boulder as he brings a hand up to rub at his eyes. 

“You have interfered with something that was beyond you,” he says finally. “Beyond you...beyond me, even. I can’t explain it, but...Garcia, she was supposed to die.”

“Supposed to…” Something in the way Gabriel looks—the guilt and shadow that crosses his face—tells Garcia there’s more to that than the standard _it was her time_ explanation.

“She was never supposed to exist to begin with,” Gabriel adds before holding up a hand. “I can’t say anything else. I shouldn’t even have said that much, but Garcia...I need you to be more careful. Please. Because there’s only so much I can do to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection,” Garcia replies, even as he feels a slight shiver through his wings at the implication.

(He knows as well as any of them what happens to those who disobey too often and too openly)

_Fallen._ The word whispers through his mind as he meets his brother’s gaze for a long moment before Gabriel nods once and turns to go. As much as the thought appeals to him on occasion, it’s never been a threat, not like it is here. And that scares him, despite his best efforts. 

“One more thing,” Gabriel says, pausing after his wings extend, though not looking back at Garcia. “You need to stop seeing Lorena Flynn.”

That stops him cold. 

“You—”

“Know?” Gabriel fills in. “Of course I know. Did you think I was so addled that I didn’t realize I never re-filed her paperwork? I let your little crush go as long as it wasn’t a problem, but it’s a problem now. So, yes. Stop seeing her. Or I’ll make you wish you had.”

“Gabriel—” Garcia’s voice breaks as he considers all the possible implications of that. “Please. Leave her alone. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“I’d say whether I do or not is entirely up to you, brother,” Gabriel replies. “Think on that.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Garcia alone, the many events of the day weighing on him far too heavily. Settling back against the trunk of the tree, he puts his head in his hands.

* * *

Garcia lasts a month. A month before Lorena’s voice in his head, her pleas to see him, outweigh the threat that hangs eve-present in his thoughts. Gabriel wouldn’t begrudge him the chance to at least say goodbye, would he? He’s not heartless after all. Just practical. 

He’ll go see her and tell her he can’t come back. That’s the plan. He can stick to it. Easy.

(It’s not. Even the thought feels like he’s ripping something out of himself. But what other choice does he have?)

He appears in her bedroom. A different room than the first time they’d met—the room of an adult, not a child—in a house that is hers, not her family’s. And yet, the deja vu grips him heavily, even as Lorena turns from the vanity at the rustle of wings.

“Lorena.”

"Garcia!" He has his arms full of her before he even knows what to do with himself—her cheek against his chest, her hands spreading over his back—and it takes everything in him not to let the embrace linger too long before he unhooks her arms and steps back. 

When he does though, when he actually steps away and looks at her for the first time in too long, she steals his breath. 

"Where have you been?" Lorena asks. "I've missed you." 

There's no good response to that when the honest reasons are _I was jealous_ and _I was trying to protect you_ so Garcia goes with the less specific though technically accurate alternative— 

"I've been busy," he replies. "It's been...difficult to get away."

It’s a mistake. He knows better than to lie to her, even by omission, which he is abruptly reminded of when she blinks and stares at him.

“That’s never stopped you before,” she points out. “Even if you’ve only been able to spend minutes, you’ve always at least shown up.”

“I—” _Why does this have to be difficult?_ “I couldn’t this time, okay? That’s all. And I shouldn’t even be here now, I just needed to tell you—I thought you deserved to know—”

Garcia trails off, but Lorena manages to read between the lines anyway. 

“You’re leaving,” she says, paling with the dawning comprehension. “And you’re not coming back.” 

“I can’t,” he replies. “I’ve broken every rule I know keeping this up for as long as I have, and I don’t care what happens to me, but Lorena, if anything were to happen to you—”

“Garcia, what are you talking about? What rules? You’re my guardian—”

“And I fell in love with you!” 

Lorena’s eyes widen as her throat closes on whatever argument she had prepared next. 

“You—what?”

_Fuck._

Well, if he isn’t going to see her again anyway, might as well go all in. 

“I fell in love with you,” Garcia repeats. “And if I don’t stay away, I don’t know what’ll happen. I don’t know what they’ll do.”

“You love me,” Lorena echoes, her tone disbelieving. “You love me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replies. “It doesn’t change anything. I can’t stay, I can’t come back, and besides, it’s not like you won’t be fine without me—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She interrupts. 

“It means—” None of this is going as intended. None of it. But at this point, he might as well see it through to the end. “It means I saw you,” Garcia admits. “With...your date. Weeks ago.” 

“Jonathan,” Lorena replies, eyes narrowing as she stares at him. “This is about _Jonathan_? For _fuck’s_ sake, Garcia, are you kidding me?”

As firm in his convictions as he had been before, he doesn’t have an answer—not, that she gives him time to get a word in even if he did.

“Why do you think I went out with him?” She asks.

“I—” _Because you liked him. In a way that you didn’t like me. Not that it matters anyway._ But Garcia’s throat closes up and Lorena rakes a hand through her hair in frustration.

“I went out with Jonathan,” she says slowly, “because he was sweet and decent and here and _human_. What else was I supposed to do, Garcia? Sit around and pine for something that I didn’t think could ever happen?”

The back of Garcia’s neck burns with shame and he drops his gaze from hers—too steady, too shrewd, saying too much for him to continue holding it. She’s right. Of course she’s right. 

“That’s all the more reason for me to leave then, isn’t it?” He says. “I’ll be out of your life, you’ll be safe...you can move on and forget about me.”

“Garcia…” Lorena sighs and a moment later her feet appear in his vision before her hand tips his chin up so he’ll look at her. “You just said that you love me. Am I supposed to forget about that?”

“You should.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

Garcia opens his mouth, then shuts it with a click. Her eyes are serious, but warm, and his heart skips at the possibility of what she might be saying.

“Lorena…”

Without letting him get in another word, Lorena leans in and kisses him. 

Garcia freezes—his hands come up, but don’t make contact, instead hanging in the air by her sides. 

(He’s wanted this, he’s dreamt of it, but he’s never been kissed, he doesn’t know how—)

Lorena breathes his name against his lips and tips her head to change the angle, pressing closer. That’s what kicks him into gear—he slides a hand into her hair, his other settling firmly on her hip, and he kisses her until his heart feels like it may pound out of his chest, until he’s breathless and drowning in her scent, in the warmth of her.

“Lorena…” Even when he pulls back he isn’t sure whether he actually intends to say more or if he’s simply enjoying the way her name feels on his tongue. For her part, Lorena just kisses him again.

“Stay,” she murmurs. “Stay with me, Garcia. Stay, and love me.”

“I can’t,” he says, although the words sound weak even to his own ears. “If anyone hurt you because of me—”

“I don’t care,” Lorena replies. “Just come back, Garcia. Please.”

“I can’t—”

“You _can_ ,” she breathes, kissing him again. Her fingers curl into his shirt and she pulls him with her towards the bed. 

“Lorena…”

“Anything I needed, wasn’t that what you were offering that first day?” Lorena asks between kisses as she pushes him down and slips into his lap. 

_Christ._ He can’t think. He needs to. He can’t be here, he can’t do any of this, he shouldn’t—

But, God help him, he _wants_.

“What if I need _you_? What about that?”

_I can’t…_ It’s on the tip of his tongue for a third time, but his hands slip under her shirt unbidden, and the quiet hum of pleasure that escapes her steals the last of his resistance. 

“Then I suppose I should keep my promise,” he acknowledges before capturing her lips once more. 

They don’t speak again for some time.

* * *

Surprisingly, they get three months. Three glorious months of stolen moments, of soft kisses and breathless sighs in the dark. And then it all turns upside down. 

He’s grabbed one night in the garden after returning from seeing her—a blindfold steals his sight and rough hands tie his wrists painfully. That though...that’s nothing compared to coming to in the council hall to see Gabriel, his face carefully shuttered, but his eyes full of regret. 

“I never wanted it to come to this, brother,” Gabriel says quietly. There’s a sword at his belt—one that Garcia has never seen, but knows nonetheless. It’s ceremonial now that its owner—Michael, if he recalls correctly—is nowhere to be found, but it’s still sharp. Still dangerous. 

And yet...he’s not afraid. 

“I can’t give her up,” Garcia replies. “I won’t. And I won’t let you or anyone else touch her.”

Gabriel closes his eyes and fingers the handle of the sword. 

“It doesn’t matter. Even if you were willing, we’re beyond that now.”

As Garcia glances around, it becomes clear that whatever official proclamations were necessary were already given. Now, all that’s left is the final piece. 

“I love her,” he says. “I’m not ashamed. And if I have to fall because of that, well. So be it. I would rather be there than here anyway.”

For half an instant, Gabriel looks stricken, but then his neutral mask closes over his face once more and he draws the sword. 

“So be it,” he echoes. 

The sword falls. Garcia’s world goes black.

“Garcia?”

Lorena’s voice swims into his head through a haze of pain. His back aches and he knows without looking, without touching, that there are vicious, bloody scars where his wings used to be. 

“Garcia?” Her hand touches his cheek and he tips into it, his eyes opening just enough to catch a glimpse of her face, drawn and pale as it is with worry. 

“Oh, thank God,” she breathes. “I was so worried. You just appeared out of nowhere, but you wouldn’t wake up, and I didn’t know if you were—are you—”

“I’m okay,” Garcia assures. _Or, I will be._ “I...I fell.”

“You—”

“They took my wings,” he says. “Cast me out. But I don’t care. Not anymore.”

“Then…” Lorena trails off and brushes a stray lock of hair off his forehead, her eyes searching his face.

“I’m here,” Garcia replies. “I’m staying. I’m not going anywhere ever again. At least...if that’s what you want.”

Lorena goes quiet, then the bed shifts and she settles next to him, curling against his side and tucking her face into his neck. If she’s crying, he can’t feel the tears, but her voice is particularly watery when she speaks again. 

“Well...I suppose if you’re going to stay, you’ll need a last name.”

“I suppose I will,” he says, the practicality of the thought not something that had previously crossed his mind. “Any suggestions?”

“Flynn.” Lorena lifts her head so she can meet his eyes. “Garcia Flynn.”

“Lorena…”

“Marry me,” she interrupts, and though her voice shakes, her gaze is as steady as ever. “Marry me, and stay with me, and love me.”

What else can he do but agree?


	2. II.

_”Wake up, sweetheart. It’s your turn.”_

_Garcia rolls over at the gentle nudge, eyes cracking just an inch to squint at the active baby monitor on the side table._

_“Mm. So it is,” he murmurs. “Be right back.”_

_Lorena waves him off, pulling the blankets over her head and drifting off once more. Garcia wanders, only half-awake, down the hall to the room where Iris is decidedly not asleep herself._

_“Hey,” he sighs once he reaches the crib with his crying daughter. “What’s wrong, sweet girl?”_

_Nothing, appears to be the answer. It’s one of those rare nights where nothing is wrong except for the play of shadows on the wall, but Garcia picks her up anyway and rocks her until her screams quiet to muffled snuffling against his chest._

_“That’s it, darling,” he soothes. “It’s alright. Daddy’s here. You’re safe.”_

_At some point, between one breath and the next, he falls asleep, waking in the morning to sunlight streaming through the curtains, Iris still curled against his chest quiet as a mouse. That is, until he shifts and she wakes with a start, clearly with breakfast on her mind._

_Lorena laughs softly in the doorway and extends her arms to take Iris from him. “I’ve got this one,” she says, pecking him swiftly on the mouth. “You’re going to be late if you don’t get in the shower soon.”_

_“Late? For what?”_

_“For your meeting with Gabriel, of course.”_

_“What?”_

_“Wake up, sweetheart. Wake up.”_

 

“Lorena—” Garcia jolts awake, breathing hard, reaching across the sheets for his wife even while knowing all too well that he won’t find her there. Not now. Not anymore. 

_Christ._

He scrubs at his eyes, banishing the burn of tears that he refuses to let fall, and takes a long, shuddering breath as he glances at the clock. Most of his dream was a memory, but the end of it at least was a reminder. He is, in fact, meeting Gabriel this morning. And although he’s long since stopped caring what his brother thinks of him, he’s not in the mood to deal with the concerned commentary likely to result if he turns up looking like he just rolled out of bed.

It’s been six months. Six months since Lorena was killed. Six months since Iris was taken. 

Six months since Gabriel waltzed back into his life. 

He’s still not quite sure how to feel about that. Gabriel, at least. He knows perfectly well how he feels about everything else.

_Broken. Hollow. Bleeding from the torn pieces remaining from having those he loved ripped away from him without warning. Barely surviving._

Letting Gabriel back in...well, that was a collateral consequence, born of necessity. Besides. It wasn’t like Garcia had asked for him. He’d shown up all on his own.

_”Lorena? Lorena!” ___

The coppery tang of blood fills Garcia’s nose in the shower as the memories wash over him. They’re only memories now, and he’s been doing much better keeping them at bay, but thinking about Gabriel always interferes with his control. Without looking, Garcia turns the water as hot as it will go, then abruptly switches it to freezing, hoping the shift will shock his system enough to bring him out of it.

It doesn’t work.

 

_“Lorena!”_

_The front door off its hinges, blood on the floor, on the walls—where is his wife? His daughter?_

_Oh, God, please no._

_“Iris? Lorena?”_

_Weak, wet coughing from the kitchen pulls his attention, and Garcia freezes in the doorway at the sight of his wife on the floor, covered in her own blood._

_“Garcia,” she gasps out, and he’s crossed to her before he even registers telling his feet to move, falling to his knees beside her. “Garcia, they—”_

_“Hush, love, it’s alright, save your strength,” he says when she coughs again, but Lorena shakes her head._

_“They took her,” she continues. “They took Iris. I couldn’t—I tried to stop them, but—”_

_Garcia blinks hard against the tears that threaten and grips her hand tightly._

_“You did the best you could,” he assures. Fuck, he needs to call an ambulance, the police. If he were still an angel he could do something himself, but he’s powerless now._

_“You have to find her,” Lorena says desperately, not trying to hold back her own tears at all. “Promise me. Garcia, you have to promise, I can’t—”_

_“I promise. I swear, I’ll bring her back. But, Lorena, listen to me, you have to hold on, you have to—”_

_“It’s too late for me, love,” she interrupts, her grip on his hand weakening even as she squeezes it. His thumb over her wrist notes the fading pulse and panic grips him like an ice through his heart._

_“Don’t say that,” he begs. “Please, Lorena, I can’t—I need you. I can’t do this alone. Please—”_

_“You don’t,” she breathes, her eyes sliding shut. “I believe in you. I’ve always…”_

_“...Lorena? Lorena!”_

_He doesn’t hear the rustle of wings, too overcome with grief and desperately searching for a pulse that’s no longer there. But he hears the sharp intake of breath and the low curse that follows._

_“Father in heaven…”_

_Garcia is on his feets faster than anything and slams Gabriel into the wall without a second thought. It strikes him that there’s nothing he can actually do to his brother, not without tools that he doesn’t have, but that isn’t going to stop him._

_“Was this your doing?” He demands, his shaking hands leaving bloody prints on Gabriel’s white shirt. “Was it?”_

_“No,” Gabriel replies, looking so shaken that Garcia almost wants to believe it. “Christ, no. I—the protection ward I set years ago went off and I came to check, but I never expected...Brother, I’m so sorry.”_

_Garcia’s grip loosens a fraction, but then tightens once more, no longer to hold Gabriel in place, but rather to keep himself standing._

_“Bring her back,” he pleads, not looking his brother in the eye. He should be angry—the last time they’d seen one another had been the day Gabriel cast him out of heaven—but that anger is buried under a fragile grasp at hope. If he could...there’s nothing Garcia wouldn’t forgive to have Lorena back. “Please. Please brother. If you ever loved me…”_

_A pained sound escapes Gabriel as he brings a hand up to curve around Garcia’s neck._

_“I can’t,” he says quietly. “Azrael could, perhaps, but—”_

_“Then call her!”_

_“—but she wouldn’t,” Gabriel finishes as though he’d never been interrupted. “Not even for you. The cost would be too great.”_

_Garcia’s stomach drops as that last flicker of hope snuffs out. His eyes burn and he sags forward as Gabriel wraps an arm around him._

_Gabriel himself is quiet for a long moment, but then—_

_“Come home,” he says. “I could give you back your wings, bring you back into the fold. It could be just like before. You’d be with your family—”_

_A rush of icy rage gives him the strength to pull away, shoving hard at Gabriel’s chest._

_“My home? My _family_?” He echoes. “My home is here. Half of my _family_ is dead and the other half is god knows where and you want to take me back to heaven?”_

_“Garcia—”_

_“It’s too late for that, Gabriel,” he replies. “If you want to help me, either get Azrael to bring my wife back or help me find my daughter. Otherwise, get the hell out. I don’t want you here.”_

_“...okay,” Gabriel sighs._

_“Okay, what?”_

_Gabriel scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly looking exactly as old as his many millennia would dictate._

_“Okay, I’ll help you find her. Iris. Whatever it takes.”_

The memory fades as Garcia tips his face up to the spray, but it lingers in the recesses of his mind like a phantom ready to remind him should he ever forget his duty.

In a way, he’s almost glad that Gabriel has been helping him—though he doesn’t like to admit it, even to himself, he’s gotten a lot closer to finding the people who took her with his help than he would have alone. The last thing Gabriel sent him was a picture of group of older men and women at what could be a holiday gathering. One man is circled with a comment below reading _Cahill_. On the back there’s a single word—Rittenhouse. 

Hopefully, Gabriel will be of a mind to explain what the hell that’s supposed to mean when they meet. 

With a sigh, Garcia shuts the shower off and steps out to get ready.

An hour later, he’s in the middle of the street when he feels it—a twist in his chest, searing pain nearly enough to bring him to his knees, but gone in half an instant. There’s an echo in his mind—a shout cut off abruptly—and he can’t explain it, but it leaves him...hollow. As though yet another piece of him has been carved out, never to be filled in again. 

As soon as he can breathe, Garcia turns back in the direction of his apartment and calls Gabriel to change their plans. 

(He doesn’t know why, but something tells him going to their meeting spot in the park isn’t a good idea)

The line rings out.

A second call elicits the same response, as does the third, and the fourth.

“Goddammit,” Garcia swears, barely stopping himself from throwing the phone at the nearest wall in frustration. 

“Contrary bastard,” he mutters. “Won’t leave me alone when I don’t want you here, won’t pick up when I do. Of course.” 

Inside though, he knows it’s more than that. The sick feeling in his stomach—roiling nausea and a knot of stone cold fear—tells him that something isn’t right. That something is, in fact, worse than he can imagine.

He calls one more time before unlocking his front door.

Still no answer.

_Fuck._

With a heavy sigh, he gives up and tries to put it out of his mind. With no call and no answers, Garcia glances at the photo he left out on the table and decides against trying to figure it out himself just yet. And so, despite it being the middle of the day, he goes back to bed. 

Of course, when he wakes up again, it’s not due to more nightmares or too much sleep.

No. There’s someone in his apartment. 

Garcia closes his fingers around the gun beneath his pillow as he watches the shadow through half-closed eyes. He waits until the figure steps through the doorway and then sits up sharply, aiming his weapon.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Garcia demands.

It’s not Gabriel, that much he can tell from the silhouette, but the other man’s face is still hidden in the dark. 

“I’m here for answers, Flynn,” he replies. “And you’re going to give them to me, one way or another.”

Garcia fires when the man moves, but he’s too slow—the shot misses and then the man is there in front of him, yanking the gun from his grip with unnaturally strong hands and dragging him out of bed. Garcia grits his teeth as he’s slammed face-first against the wall, his wrists twisted behind him.

“Who the fuck _are_ you?” He asks again, hissing when he tries to struggle and almost gets a dislocated shoulder for his trouble.

“You can call me Wyatt. Wyatt Logan,” the man says. “Not that I’m planning to stick around long enough for you to need to know that.”

“And what is it you want to know, _Logan_?” Garcia grinds out.

“I want to know what the fuck you did to Gabriel.”

Garcia starts, wincing when the movement pulls at his shoulders. “What happened to Gabriel?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I _don’t_. What happened to him?”

There’s a pause and then Wyatt clears his throat, although his voice remains rough when he speaks again. 

“He’s dead.”

He thinks about that painful instant earlier, all the unanswered calls…

_No._

“That’s not possible.”

Wyatt’s grip loosens just a fraction, but it’s enough for Garcia to kick back and twist free. He doesn’t get much further than turning back around though before Wyatt recovers and grabs him by the front of his shirt.

“He called me,” Wyatt says. “He called me and I found him drowning in his own blood, stabbed through with demonic steel. The last thing he said was your name.”

_Christ. Gabriel._

“Why would he call you?” Garcia asks. “Who _are_ you?”

Wyatt’s jaw clenches and he reluctantly takes a step backwards. The next moment there’s a familiar flutter and a pair of shockingly vivid wings unfurl from his back, the feathers bearing the silver-edged marks of an archangel. That shouldn’t be possible either, except, well...there’s no way to fake those.

_Gabriel, Azrael, Raphael, and—_

“Michael.”

“As I said,” Wyatt replies. “I go by Wyatt these days.”

“Where have you been?”

“Here. On Earth. Around...it doesn’t matter.” Wyatt grabs his shirt again. “Now tell me why you killed my brother.”

“I didn’t,” Garcia denies. “I didn’t even know he was dead until you just told me. I don’t know anything about this, so let me go.”

“Garcia Flynn, cast out of heaven just over a decade ago by Gabriel himself,” Wyatt recites as if reading from a file. “You hated him and now he’s turned up dead. Seems suspicious to me.”

“If he’s dead, it wasn’t by my hand,” he says. “And I don’t—I didn’t—hate him. Not anymore.”

“He cast you out—”

“Of a heaven I didn’t want to be in!” Garcia shouts, shoving at Wyatt’s shoulders. “Which, given that as I understand it you’ve been away for quite some time, I would think you might relate to. The only thing I hated him for was threatening my wife and I forgave him for that as soon as he agreed to help me. Whatever you think of me, I had nothing to do with this.”

A troubled look passes over Wyatt’s face before it smooths out again. 

“That—he was meeting with you regularly. You had opportunity…”

“He was _helping_ me to _find my daughter_ ,” Garcia replies, rolling his eyes. “A task which, I suppose I now have to complete by myself. So, if you wouldn’t mind leaving me the fuck alone now that I’ve answered your questions so I can get back to that, I’d appreciate it.” 

He tries to take a step forward, but Wyatt stops him.

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._

“I’m not sure I believe you,” he says.

“Someone murdered my wife,” Garcia repeats slowly. “Took my daughter. Gabriel—Gabriel was the only thing I had left. Why would I kill him?”

“People do things that don’t make sense all the time. And I have no reason to trust you.”

“You don’t have to trust me. Just stay out of my way.”

Wyatt narrows his eyes and looks at him for a long, tense moment, until finally, _finally_ stepping aside. 

“I still want to know who killed Gabriel,” he says.

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us,” Garcia mutters.

When he leaves the bedroom, Wyatt follows. Garcia’s just about to suggest he show himself out when he notices the other man staring at the picture on the coffee table. 

“Where did you get that?” Wyatt asks.

“Gabriel. Why? Do you know what it is?”

“I—” He reaches for the photo, his finger hovering over the image of the woman next to Cahill. “Carol. That’s Carol.”

“Who’s Carol?”

Wyatt swallows and picks the picture up to look closer. “She was one of us,” he says quietly. “Until you she was the last one to fall. I wasn’t there for that either, I never heard exactly what happened, but...she came to see me before. Said she was in trouble, asked for my help.”

“You turned her down,” Garcia fills in, crossing his arms. 

“Look, I wasn’t—” Wyatt rakes his free hand through his hair in frustration. “I wasn’t in a good place. You’re not the only one who’s ever lost someone, okay? I regretted sending her away after, but I couldn’t do anything.”

“And then she fell.”

“And then she fell,” he acknowledges. “Christ. Who—who are these people?”

Garcia shrugs. “It just says _Rittenhouse_.

Wyatt freezes. “What?”

“Rittenhouse. Sound familiar?”

Dropping the photo as though it’s burned him, Wyatt turns towards the door. 

“Hey!” Garcia calls. “You broke into _my_ house, you leave when I say you can. What the fuck is Rittenhouse?”

“It’s not a what, it’s a who. Or rather a they,” Wyatt explains, his gaze fixed on a random section of the floor. “They’re a collective of demonology practitioners—used to be in the habit of trying to summon angels too before we put a stop to that. Either way, they’re...dangerous.”

“Could they have killed Gabriel?” Garcia asks.

Wyatt’s silence tells him the answer to that. 

“I have to go.”

“Wait,” Garcia says. Wyatt pauses, tension clear in his shoulders, but doesn’t quite look back at him. “Are you going after them?”

“I’m—no,” Wyatt replies. “I’m getting as far away from here as possible. And if you’re smart, you will too.”

“What?”

Wyatt blows out a breath and glances over his shoulder. “You don’t know what these people have done, Flynn. I don’t know why Carol is in that picture and if somehow they’re involved in this business with your family, I’m sorry for that, but I have to think about this. I have to go.”

“Hang on.” Garcia crosses the room and blocks the door. “You came here to get answers about Gabriel, and I’m assuming to kill me once you got them if it turned out I was the one who killed him. And yet now you’re just going to leave? I thought Gabriel was your brother?”

“You don’t understand—” 

“I understand that you’re a coward,” Garcia snaps, and Wyatt freezes.

“I’m a coward?” He echoes. “ _I’m_ a coward? You _fell_. You don’t get to tell me—”

“Yes, I fell,” Garcia interrupts. “But at least I was honest about it. I let them take my wings and cast me out rather than go to ground and hide from responsibilities I didn’t run. Unlike you.”

“That’s not—”

“When was the last time you showed your face back in heaven again, _Michael_?”

Wyatt flinches. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t call me that.”

Garcia tips his head in acknowledgment as he leans against the doorframe.

“Like I said. Coward.”

Wyatt scrubs his hands over his face and glances back at the coffee table and the Rittenhouse photo. 

“You don’t know the things they’ve done,” he says quietly.

“So tell me,” Garcia replies. “And when you’re finished you can run if you want. But if there’s even a chance these people have my daughter, I have to go after them.”

“They’ll kill you.”

“Do you really think I care about that anymore?” Garcia pushes off the doorframe and collects the photo from the table. “If I can’t get Iris back, nothing else matters. So...start talking, Logan.” 

“You’re determined, I’ll give you that.” Wyatt sighs, clearly considering it. “Okay. We should start with Carol. She’s the best lead we have right now.”

“We? Does that mean you’re sticking around?”

“I don’t like you,” Wyatt says. “And I don’t trust you. But I believe you didn’t kill Gabriel and if what happened to him was because of this, well...I’m not just going to sit back and let you get yourself killed. If nothing else, he wouldn’t want that.”

_Probably not._ Lord, Garcia can practically hear him laughing now at this turn of events. 

“Okay. So, how do we find this woman?”

That at least gets him a wry smile. 

“Don’t worry,” Wyatt replies. “I know a guy.”

* * *

“Wyatt, I told you after last time I was done with the supernatural shit,” Rufus says through the computer screen. The webcam image is slightly fuzzy, but Garcia can at least get a clear enough picture of the man’s features...and the look of exasperation written across them.

“What happened last time?” He asks.

“Nothing,” Wyatt replies, correcting himself at the aghast noise Rufus makes. “Okay, nothing _that bad_.”

“Not bad? That artifact you left me with nearly set my apartment on fire!”

“Artifact?” Garcia mutters.

“An ancient lantern,” Wyatt says just as quietly. “Gabriel’s in fact. I didn’t think it would be so temperamental given that he lost it twelve centuries ago. My mistake.”

“No artifacts this time, I promise,” he addresses to Rufus. “We just need you to find someone.”

“Because _that’s_ never gone badly for anyone,” Rufus sighs. “But fine, sure. Hit me.”

“I’m sending you a picture—” Wyatt clicks around for a moment and then Rufus’ computer pings. “We need to know more about the woman on the far right. Last I knew her first name was Carol, but I’m not sure about the last name.”

“Okay, give me a minute...huh.” 

“What?” Garcia asks. 

“Uh…”

“Rufus, what is it?” Wyatt repeats.

“Well,” Rufus says, dragging out the word. “I found her. But you’re not going to like it.”

“Why?”

“She’s dead,” he replies. “Carol Preston, passed away from cancer a year ago leaving behind two daughters, Lucy and Amy. Her husband, Henry, predeceased her when the girls were still young.”

“Fuck,” Wyatt says, summing up Garcia’s own feelings on the matter. “There’s nothing else?”

“I mean, unless you care about the fact that her husband is only listed as the father on one of their children’s birth certificates, but that doesn’t exactly seem relevant.”

Something flickers in the back of Garcia’s mind. It’s just a random fact, that’s true. It shouldn’t matter. And yet, something is telling him it does. 

“Which of them isn’t his?” He asks, and Wyatt shoots him an odd look.

Rufus raises a brow at the question, but pulls up the information anyway. “Lucy Preston. The oldest. Looks like she’s just over thirty now, perfectly clean, no record except for the fact that she totaled her car driving off a cliff a little more than ten years ago.”

_“You have interfered with something that was beyond you. Beyond you...beyond me, even. I can’t explain it, but...Garcia, she was supposed to die.”_

It’s too much of a coincidence.

_Lucy Preston, what are you hiding?_

“Flynn?” Wyatt’s voice brings him back and he clears his throat.

“Thanks,” he says. “Can you check one more thing? The man next to her, I’m assuming his last name is Cahill…?”

A few more clicks and Rufus has that answer as well. “Benjamin Cahill. Pediatric surgeon and genetic researcher at the UCSF Medical Center.”

_“She was never supposed to exist to begin with.”_

A picture is forming in his mind, but it’s not one that Garcia wants to believe. He could be wrong. He could be grasping at ridiculous, impossible straws. Part of him wants to be.

But he thinks about saving a young woman from drowning after her car went off a cliff, thinks about his brother’s face during the argument that followed, thinks about Carol Preston the fallen angel and her ties to Rittenhouse, thinks about demons and angels and genetic experiments...

He wants to be wrong, but he doesn’t think he is. 

“Flynn,” Wyatt says again, and he starts. 

“Sorry, I...I need a minute,” Garcia replies. Instinctually, he waves a hand at the screen before turning towards the door. 

“What’s wrong with him?” He hears Rufus ask as he walks out. He doesn’t catch Wyatt’s response beyond the low vibration of his voice—he doesn’t care much at the moment regardless. He needs to think.

If he’s right, if these people have done what he thinks they have...and if they have his daughter…

_Oh, God._

Wyatt comes in a moment later to find Garcia sitting on the worn-down couch with his head in his hands. Setting his laptop down on the coffee table, he sits in the chair across the way and watches for a moment before finally speaking.

“You want to tell me what that was?”

“She’s a demon,” Garcia says, and Wyatt blinks.

“Who?”

“Lucy Preston.”

“That...may be the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said.”

Garcia lifts his head and glares. “I’m telling you, she is,” he insists. “Look—that incident where she drove her car off a cliff, that wasn’t an accident. It was us.”

“Angels don’t interfere—”

“Gabriel implied as much when he was yelling at me for saving her life,” he interrupts when Wyatt tries to cut in. “He said she was never meant to exist. If she were some sort of angel-demon hybrid, that would explain it.”

Wyatt takes that in, then swears fiercely. 

“Benjamin Cahill is a geneticist,” he says.

“And a member of Rittenhouse,” Garcia adds. “Does that sound like the sort of thing they would do?”

“That sounds exactly like what they would do.”

_Iris…_

Garcia quashes the fear that spikes through him, pushing it down, locking it away until his head is clear. 

“In that case, I think we need to speak to her.”

For once, Wyatt agrees with him without complaint.

* * *

“Here,” Wyatt says an hour later, turning the laptop screen towards him to show the file Rufus had sent over. “Dr. Lucy Preston. Associate Professor at Stanford.”

“In the history department?” Garcia replies, skimming the brief bio.

“Is that surprising? It’s not like it was going to say _Lucy Preston, Doctor of Demonology and Witchcraft_.” Wyatt rolls his eyes and flips the screen back. “I’d bet just about anything she thinks she’s completely normal. Or if she doesn’t, she’s certainly not going to make it look otherwise.”

A retort is on the tip of his tongue, but for once he lets it go. They have a lead. A real lead. They should focus on that.

“We could go to her house,” Garcia suggests.

“And wind up with someone calling the cops because two strange men who look too old to be students are lurking around the home of a young female professor?” Wyatt replies.

“That wouldn’t happen.”

“I’m just saying, it’s not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Because that’s what you would do?”

Wyatt shrugs. “As a matter of fact, yes, it is. One of us has to know how to be a gentleman.”

“Fine,” Garcia says. “What would you suggest then?”

“We go to her office,” Wyatt replies. “Her office hours are listed right here, and given that she’s liable to think we’re nuts no matter where we approach her, it’s better that it at least be somewhere relatively public.”

Privately, Garcia agrees that the logic makes sense. Out loud, well. If winding Wyatt up is the only fun he has these days, he’s not going to let an opportunity to do so slip by. Regardless, they’re on their way within the next half hour and on campus only moments after that when Wyatt opens a portal and pulls Garcia through alongside him.

(If there’s one thing he misses about his wings, it’s the ability to do that)

They find Lucy’s office easily, but pass by it when they take note of the sign-up sheet for office hours with a student’s name already scribbled in the first slot in cramped handwriting. There’s a small lounge around the corner with chairs and couches and they settle in to wait.

It’s been about ten minutes when Wyatt hisses suddenly, one hand going to his temple.

He has no reason to care, but the question slips out before Garcia can stop it.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt replies after a beat, even as his eyes slip closed. “Just...prayers, you know?”

As a matter of fact, he doesn’t have the slightest idea what that’s supposed to mean. 

“Prayers?”

“I hear them,” Wyatt explains. “Every _Saint Michael, defend us_ , every _Good Saint Michael, pray for us_ , all of them. I mean, they have to go somewhere, right? It’s only that sometimes they can be a little...loud.”

_Oh_.

Before...Garcia had always been able to hear Lorena, but she was the only one who knew him well enough to try that. He hadn’t realized, had never made the connection.

“You can’t turn it off?” Garcia asks.

Wyatt shrugs. “I can usually push it aside, keep it dim enough that it doesn’t bother me. But the only way to make it stop entirely would be to...well, fall.”

Which brings them right back around to where they left that first conversation. 

“So why don’t you?”

“Even if I could convince someone to cast me out officially?” Wyatt muses. Finally he lowers his hand, the tension in his face smoothing out into something quieter, sadder. 

“Sometimes I still want to answer them,” he finishes.

For once, Garcia can’t think of anything to say to that. So he doesn’t say anything at all. 

Down the hall, a door opens and a quiet _bye, Dr. Preston_ , reaches his ears. 

“Hey,” he says, reaching out to jostle Wyatt’s shoulder. “We’re up.”

Garcia was prepared to walk down the hall and knock on the door. 

He wasn’t prepared for Lucy to nearly drop her coffee mug, her eyes going wide with shock the moment he said her name. 

Wyatt steps in after a long moment of awkward silence.

“Um, Dr. Preston, ma’am, I’m Wyatt Logan, this is Garcia Flynn,” he introduces. “Would it be possible for us to have a moment of your time?”

Lucy snaps out of her staring at that, clearing her throat and pushing back her chair. 

“Yes, of course,” she says. “I’m so sorry, it’s only—Mr. Flynn, was it? Have we met?”

It would be very easy to lie. It would probably even be the smart thing to do. But then, she lifts her hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and he spots the scar on her palm—a burn mark in the shape of a feather. One of his feathers to be precise.

“I—yes,” Garcia finally replies. “That’s part of what we’re here to discuss.”

Lucy gestures to the open seats next to her desk. “Please. Come in then.”


	3. III.

They start with a fiction—that the two of them are FBI agents investigating Benjamin Cahill for an illegal gene therapy trial that he’s conducting with kidnapped children. In fairness, Garcia thinks, the truth might be even stranger.

“I know Dr. Cahill,” Lucy acknowledges, her brow furrowing as she leans back in her chair. “I was very sick as a child, but no one could say what was wrong with me—hell, I still don’t know. But my mom would take me to Dr. Cahill and I would get better. Then one day, he said I was cured and I’ve never been sick since. Not even a cold. I couldn’t tell you what he did though.”

“And you didn’t think that was strange?” Wyatt asks.

“Of course I did,” Lucy replies, wrapping her hands around her coffee cup, though making no move to drink. “But I was a kid. I didn’t like going to the doctor, so if I didn’t have to go anymore that was the dream. Besides, Dr. Cahill was...well, if I recall correctly there was always something off about him. Strange. He made me uncomfortable.”

“In what way?” Garcia prompts.

Lucy shrugs. “He just did. He would look at me like I was a science project more than a patient. My mom said I was just imagining things. But if he’s doing what you say he is, I suppose I was right to be nervous.”

“And he hasn’t contacted you at all?”

She shakes her head. “He sent a card when mom died, but other than that, no. But—”

Lucy glances down at the mark on her palm and looks back to Garcia with curiosity in her eyes.

“What does any of this have to do with you saving my life, Mr. Flynn?”

Garcia shoots a look at Wyatt who merely spreads his hands in response.

_Tell her, don’t tell her—it’s all the same to me._

_Fine._

“It wasn’t an accident that you lost control of your car that night, Lucy,” he says. “Someone was trying to kill you. Likely because of whatever treatments Dr. Cahill provided you with.”

“I see,” Lucy replies, although it’s clear that she doesn’t entirely. “And why would someone do such a thing?”

“Do you believe in demons, Lucy?” Garcia asks before he can talk himself out of it or think of a better response—one less likely to get them thrown out of her office. 

“No,” she says, holding his gaze steadily. “But I believe in angels. And I’ve been trying for years to convince myself that you weren’t my guardian angel that night, Mr. Flynn. But I’m not wrong. Am I?”

“I—”

He’s startled enough by her response, that he hardly even flinches when the door blows off its hinges and smoke begins pouring into the room. 

“Wyatt!” Garcia shouts, instinctively putting himself between Lucy and the door, even as hissing dark figures with long tongues and claws begin to emerge from the smoke. 

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Wyatt calls back—with a snap of his fingers, a sword appears in his hand. With his free hand, he pulls a dagger from his inside jacket pocket and tosses it back. Garcia barely catches it.

“What the fuck are you planning on doing with that?” He demands.

“What the fuck do you think?” Wyatt replies. 

Without another word, his wings unfurl and he throws himself into the throng of demons, sword raised high. For several moments, everything is snarls and growls and the clang of angelic steel against claws—then, one slips past Wyatt, moving straight towards Garcia and Lucy.

_Fuck_. 

Flipping the dagger over in his hand, Garcia sets himself up, tackling the creature when it gets close enough. He gets in one good shot, two, but then the knife is wrenched from his grip when claws rake down his arm. In an instant, he finds himself on his back, menacing jaws threatening to close around his throat—except, the demon freezes, howls in pain, and when Garcia looks back, he sees Lucy standing there looking terrified but fierce, pulling her hand back from the scissors she plunged into its shoulder.

Relief floods through him, but he doesn’t waste the chance, scrambling for the knife again and slashing it firmly against the demon’s throat. Lucy reaches for his free hand and helps him to his feet, taking his weight when the pain in his arm causes him to stumble.

“Do you believe in demons now, Lucy?” Garcia pants, releasing her hand so he can hold pressure on the gash. 

She presses her lips together and glances over the chaos that her office has become as the smoke begins to dissipate and Wyatt stalks back towards them, having dispatched the rest of the creatures. 

“I think—I think we should go somewhere a little more private to discuss...this,” Lucy replies, looking warily at the slowly vanishing carcasses. 

“That’s probably for the best,” Wyatt acknowledges. With another snap of his fingers, he opens a portal and holds out a hand for her. “May I?”

“What is it?”

“Best way to travel,” he replies. “I promise it won’t hurt a bit.”

“You can trust us, Lucy,” Garcia says quietly. 

Glancing between the two of them one last time, Lucy nods sharply once and takes Wyatt’s hand. Garcia follows after them, and the next instant, they’re in Lucy’s house.

“Christ,” she breathes as she realizes where they are.

“He’s part of it, yes,” Wyatt jokes, shrugging when Garcia raises a brow at him for it. 

“Well,” Lucy says. “You’re definitely not FBI agents.”

“You knew that already though. Basically said as much to Flynn here.”

“I had theories,” she corrects. “I wasn’t exactly expecting to have them confirmed so dramatically though.”

“I suppose we owe you some explanations,” Wyatt acknowledges. 

“Yes, but first things first—” Lucy looks pointedly at Garcia’s torn sleeve and the gash beneath it. “I don’t tend to leave guests bleeding on my carpet.”

“I can fix that—”

“Logan, you don’t need to—”

Over Garcia’s protest, Wyatt grips his injured arm tight and closes his eyes. A wash of soft light later, the gash begins closing on its own.

“You were saying?” Wyatt asks.

“I’m not thanking you,” Garcia replies. 

They tell Lucy everything then. Everything they should have said the first time around and then some. When they finish, she’s quiet.

“Lucy?” Wyatt prompts after a moment.

She raises her head and looks at Garcia. “I’m sorry about your family,” she says. “If there’s anything—I don’t know what I could do, but—”

He shakes his head and she cuts off before adding, “The two of you should stay at least. I can offer that much.”

“That’s not nec—” Wyatt kicks him under the table and he snaps his mouth shut.

“That would be lovely,” Wyatt says smoothly, covering for Garcia’s near-rejection. “We’d be happy to stay.”

“Wonderful.” Lucy’s voice is distracted, distant, her eyes wandering. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I...need a moment.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need, ma’am.”

Both men watch as she leaves, but when Garcia rises to go after her, Wyatt puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“Let her be,” he says. “We just turned her life upside down. It’s a lot to take in.”

“She saved my life today,” Garcia admits.

“I know,” Wyatt replies. “She’s brave. Reminds me of my wife.”

Garcia looks over at him, startled. “I didn’t know you were married.”

Wyatt’s mouth curves up in a twist that’s more sadness than smile. “Her name was Jessica. She was a nurse in World War II. God, I loved her.”

“Is she why you didn’t go back?” Garcia asks.

“One of the reasons, I suppose,” Wyatt says. “But I’d left heaven long before that. I wasn’t attached to anything though, I was just...lost. Drifting. And then I met Jess and it was like…”

“Like coming home,” Garcia fills in, his own mind drifting.

“I am sorry, you know. About Lorena.” Wyatt starts to reach out, but seemingly thinks better of touching Garcia in such a delicate moment. “We said a lot of things that first day and I know it may not have seemed like I meant it, but I did. I know what it’s like to lose a love like that and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

Garcia is quiet for a long moment, and then— “Does it get easier?” He asks. “Missing her?”

Wyatt sighs. “I don’t know, Flynn. Sometimes I think it doesn’t hurt as badly. And then others it’s like the first day all over again. It comes in waves.”

Garcia swallows hard, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

* * *

Of course, nothing is simple. After they agree to stay with Lucy, Benjamin Cahill disappears. It takes two weeks of waiting, of nothing except staying in Lucy’s house and wondering if she’s going to be attacked again, before everything happens all at once. 

Finally, Benjamin Cahill comes to them. 

It’s a Sunday. The doorbell rings. Lucy opens the door. 

At first glance, Cahill could be any sweet old man canvassing for donations for a food pantry or church fund. But Garcia knows what he is, and as he pulls Lucy back away from the doorway, he’s finally able to glimpse the tiny figure at Cahill’s side.

_Iris._

“Mr. Flynn,” he greets, voice sickly sweet. “If you would be so kind, hand over my daughter and I won’t have to hurt yours.”

“Daddy?” Iris’ eyes go wide and she squirms against the grip Cahill has on her. “Daddy!”

Garcia’s stomach drops. It’s been months. _Months_ without seeing his little girl and now she’s standing in front of him.

But she’s still not safe.

“You bastard, let her go,” he growls. Cahill tsks and digs his nails into Iris’ arm hard enough to leave impressions. 

“There’s no need for name calling, Mr. Flynn. Now, I have no intention of letting this lovely specimen go, but as I said, I will be taking _my_ daughter with me.”

Lucy blanches, finally registering exactly what he’d said. “Daughter?”

“Of course Carol wouldn’t tell you,” he sighs. “She always did like to be difficult.”

Wyatt appears in the kitchen doorway, drawn by the commotion, but Garcia waves him back for the moment. 

“You’re not taking either of them,” Garcia interjects.

Cahill chuckles and it sends a shiver down his spine. “And who exactly is going to stop me?” He asks. “You? Good Saint Michael in there? I’m sure that would be a fun fight. He always was a better warrior than Gabriel after all. Who, by the way, was dreadfully easy to kill. To think, I was so hoping for a challenge.”

It’s only the reddening skin of Iris’ arm under Cahill’s grip that keeps Garcia from lunging at him right there. As it is, he feels...trapped. 

Without warning, Lucy wrenches away, grabbing Garcia’s knife from his belt and holding it to her own neck. 

Cahill’s eyes spark with shock. “Lucy...darling...what are you doing?”

“You need me alive, right?” She says. “I’m assuming you’re trying to make more of...whatever I am. Which means you need me alive.”

“Lucy,” he replies, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “Be reasonable. Don’t do anything stupid.”

He takes a step towards the threshold and Lucy steps back, pressing the blade harder against her throat until a bead of red bubbles up. 

“No. I think that’s what I should be saying to you.”

Cahill’s eyes are trained on Lucy, but behind him a portal opens up and Wyatt steps out silently, sword drawn. Garcia tries not to look at him, not wanting to draw attention, not wanting to consider all the ways in which this situation could go terribly, terribly wrong. 

“Iris, sweetheart,” he murmurs, trying to tune out everything else but his daughter. “Eyes on me, okay, love? Everything is going to be fine.”

_I’m scared,_ she mouths. 

_Me too,_ he replies. 

“Lucy, don’t be a fool,” Cahill demands, his face twisting. “Put down the knife. I am your _father_ and this is what you were made for. This is your destiny. Accept it and come with—”

Dark blood blooms from his chest as he cuts off abruptly, staring down at the blade Wyatt’s run through him. As soon as his grip on her slackens, Iris is off like a shot, throwing herself into Garcia’s arms. 

“You know,” Wyatt remarks, twisting the blade, “I kind of thought the man who took out Gabriel would be harder to kill. How disappointing. I was hoping for a challenge.”

Cahill sneers as his own words are echoed back to him. “You won’t win,” he bites out. “Rittenhouse has a hundred members. They’ll step up to continue my work. This doesn’t end with me.”

“God, do you _ever_ stop talking?” Wyatt asks. He wrenches out the sword and Cahill falls to his knees.

“Flynn, cover Iris’ eyes, she doesn’t need to see this,” he adds. Then, with a single swing, he cleanly slices through Cahill’s neck. 

After a moment, when his body starts to vanish the way a demon’s would, Wyatt grimaces. 

“Well...good news, we won’t have to hide a body. Bad news...Lucy, you should probably still move.”

Lucy’s eyes are wide as the knife in her hand clatters to the floor. Slowly, she looks from him to Garcia and Iris, and nods. 

“Yeah. I think you’re probably right about that.”


	4. Epilogue

It takes three years to rid the world of Rittenhouse, but they manage it, one member at a time. And then it’s done. 

Two weeks after they return home from their last mission, Garcia pauses in the hallway when Iris bolts past him into the kitchen.

“Lucy, can you proofread my essay? It’s only two pages.” He hears her ask.

“In a bit,” Lucy replies. “If you leave it on the table, I’ll give it back when I’m finished.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Garcia may not be in the room, may not be able to see Lucy’s reaction, but he knows that tone in his daughter’s voice—carefully casual and breezy as it is. She’d planned that, and the silence is palpable.

“Lucy?”

“Did you say…”

“Is—is that okay?” At that, Garcia is glad he isn’t in the room and he presses close to the wall, closing his eyes against his own wave of emotion.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Lucy sighs, and the chair scrapes against the floor as she gets up to hug her. “Of course it is. Of course.” 

(It’s not a surprise—they’ve all been living together since Cahill met his end on her front stoop—Garcia, Iris, Lucy, and Wyatt. And Lucy is as much her mother as Lorena was. But it’s still new, and it makes his heart clench something fierce)

Clearing his throat, Garcia makes it the rest of the way down the hall and into the kitchen just as Lucy and Iris are pulling apart.

“How are my favorite girls?” He asks, wrapping one arm around Lucy’s waist and pressing his lips to her temple, his free hand ruffling Iris’ hair.

“ _Dad_ ,” Iris complains, smoothing down the strands and looking between him and Lucy. 

“You shouldn’t bother her,” she adds, biting back a grin. “She’s busy grading.”

Garcia raises an eyebrow at his daughter. “And what is it you were just doing then?”

“Getting a cookie,” Iris replies, sweeping past the two of them to steal one from the cookie jar before scampering out the door before either can say a word about spoiling her dinner.

Lucy stares after her for a moment, then bursts out laughing, pressing close to Garcia’s side. 

“That girl, I swear.”

“Just like her mother,” he says fondly. 

“About that,” Lucy says, drawing back just enough to look up at him. “Did you tell her?”

“I haven’t said a word,” Garcia admits. “Haven’t found the right moment. But I’m sure she already knows. She’s a perceptive kid.”

“What does Iris already know?” Wyatt asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“About this,” Garcia replies before curving his hand around the back of Lucy’s neck and ducking his head to kiss her. Lucy laughs into the kiss, but her own fingers curl into the front of his shirt as she lifts onto her toes.

“Oh, well, in that case, she definitely knows,” Wyatt says, pushing off the frame and crossing over to the two of them. “Probably doesn’t know about this though—”

With that, it’s his turn to kiss her, and then all three of them are laughing. 

“I love you,” Lucy gasps through her giggles, and both men freeze. Wyatt’s the first to break.

“Yeah?” He asks.

Lucy bites her lip and nods. “Yeah.” Cutting her eyes over to Garcia she adds, “Both of you. In case that wasn’t clear.”

(He doesn’t say it back that day. He doesn’t even say it back that week. But Lucy doesn’t seem to mind at all when he finally whispers it against her neck two months later when she’s half-asleep between him and Wyatt)

“Come here,” Garcia says, and she twines her arms around his neck when he kisses her again.

In the back of his mind, he thinks he hears Lorena’s laughter. 

_Be happy, my love._

_I am._

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me over the summer when I was listening to the Hunchback of Notre Dame musical soundtrack, and Welp. It's not exactly how I imagined it would end up, but I had to stop messing with it eventually.


End file.
